


just finish up your drink (and surround me)

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humour, House Party AU, One Shot, Smut, alternative universe, bartender!yaz, filmmaker!thirteen, nb!thirteen, thasmin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: Tired of her job and looking for more, Yaz meets a stranger one night who might just be the one to broaden her horizons.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	just finish up your drink (and surround me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mag_lex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_lex/gifts).



> for sheila, because she's a legend <3
> 
> TW // anxiety, discussion of health problems, alcohol, recreational drug use (nothing hardcore)

The stench of beer and ale clings to the fabric of her black shirt, her hair and her skin. It infiltrates her nostrils and sets, sticky and viscid, into the creases of her palms when she loads a table’s worth of glasses and pitchers onto a tray to return to the kitchen. 

When Yaz next glimpses her watch, she’s relieved to see the remains of her shift in single digits. It’s stuffy and loud at the bar, so she sticks to wiping empty wood-stained tables down for the next grumbling middle-aged man to spoil. 

“That’s it. Work, woman,” a familiar voice drawls. 

When Yaz turns from her place scrubbing at a stubborn stain, she does so with a glare. 

Bill gives her a four-fingered wave from a stool at the bar at the same time as Yaz flicks her middle finger up.

“What are you doing here?” Yaz quips, draping a blue and white striped tablecloth over her shoulder and closing the distance between them for a quick hug. 

Bill ruffles her hair as she pulls back but, sleep-deprived and tired, Yaz pays her no due. 

“Nice to see you again, too. You look like death warmed up, mate.”

“Cheers.”

“Still would.”

“Gross.” Yaz rounds to the other side of the bar and reaches for a glass. It comes as second nature to pour Bill a pint and put it on her employee tab. “Anyway, as much as I love the company, you usually have a reason to visit me at work. What’s up? Did you get fired again?”

“Oh, piss off,” Bill scoffs, taking a parched sip when Yaz slides her drink over the counter. “I got a promotion, actually. Someone must’ve put in a good word.” 

“Or you paid them off,” Yaz catches her tongue between her teeth and grins, earning her a sarcastic smile in return. “Nice one, though. Tell you what, I’ll chuck in some peanuts for you as well.”

When Yaz turns to fetch the offending item from a rack on the back shelf, Bill emits a low whistle. “Wow, thanks. Not sure if I can accept such a gift.”

“Don’t say I don’t treat you well,” Yaz chimes, dumping the packet just shy of her glass and leaning against the counter with her arms folded. “So you’re an official researcher for _Blue Box Productions_ now, huh?”

“That’s right,” Bill boasts, puffing out her chest. “Heading for the casting director position next. Janet is a _right_ piece of work but I reckon I could take her.” 

“Just remember me when you’re rich and famous and come visit me here sometimes, alright?” Yaz only half-exaggerates, stealing a handful of salted peanuts when Bill rips open the packaging. 

Bill’s brows pinch and, empathetic, she slides her pint Yaz’s way. “You won’t be here forever, mate.” 

“Can’t drink while on shift, Bill. You know that,” Yaz informs in declination, nudging the condensation-dampened glass back. 

“Your shift ended thirty seconds ago, babes.” 

Eyeing the floor to ensure her colleagues aren’t facing her way, Yaz takes a hasty sip. 

“I’m having a party tomorrow night to celebrate the promotion — and to have an excuse to get wasted,” Bill broaches hesitantly a minute later, looking hopeful. “You up?”

“I’m working.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve already checked the rota behind the bar.”

Yaz slips the sign-out sheet out from beneath the bar and scribbles her details down just to give herself a reason to avert her gaze. “I have a date.”

“No way. Really? Who with?”

“The takeaway down the road and _Selling Sunset_ on Netflix.”

“Y’know, middle-aged spinster really isn’t a good look on you,” Bill teases, dropping a slice of bait into Yaz’s vicinity and waiting for her to indulge herself. 

But Yaz shakes her off and ignores her persuasive technique. “Shut up.”

“Just this once, Yaz. It’s just _one_ party.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“One more won’t hurt?”

“You said that too.”

Bill folds her arms and pops her brows. “I’ll beg if you like.”

“I _knew_ you were a bottom.”

“Shut up.”

The rumble of a cleared throat reminds Yaz of the end of her shift and, after passing her duty over to an acne-littered student with bags under his eyes, she fetches her jacket from the back room and returns to her best friend. 

“Need a lift home?” Bill offers between sips.

Leather jacket shrugged over her shoulders, Yaz leans against the bar beside her. A wave of expensive _overused_ cologne fills her nose when a suited bloke passes on his way to the restroom and she wrinkles her top lip. “So you can spend the entire way home trying to persuade me to come to your party?”

“Do you want to walk home in the pissing rain or not?” Bill argues, motioning to the windows doused in a layer of condensation. 

Despite it, Yaz can spy the sea of water greeting each car tyre on its way past the pub and a group of drenched young adults headed towards the doors. 

“Fine. But only ‘cause it’s raining.”

“Hallelujah,” Bill quips before taking a lengthy sip and biting back a wince. She sets the glass aside and slips from her stool. “Ready to go?”

Hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, Yaz nods. She flutters her lashes when they reach the doors, offering up a smile Bill squints at. “Can I use the AUX?”

“In your dreams, mate.”

* * *

Her shared flat is quiet when Yaz steps inside, leather jacket speckled with thick raindrops and hair frizzed from the jog between Bill’s car and her brightly-coloured complex. 

The late hour leads her to assume that her sister is already in her room. A quick glance down the hall on her way to the bathroom confirms her theory; warm golden light seeps out from beneath Sonya’s bedroom door and Yaz breathes a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d had to chase her up on her whereabouts since they’d decided to move out of their family home and cohabitate. 

Padding into the bathroom, Yaz sets the shower running and loosens the plait in her hair while the water warms and steam rises. When she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she winces at the dark rings around her eyes and the ashy tinge to her skin and feels suddenly a lot more grateful to have the weekend off. 

The customers will start thinking Halloween has begun early otherwise. 

After testing the temperature for the scolding kind of heat which leaves her skin smarting but her system cleansed, Yaz strips bare and scrubs the grimy stench of ale from her arms, hands and face. 

By the time she slips into her room and slumps onto her bed, damp hair carved into a french braid, she has to work hard to keep her eyes open. 

Reality television goes unwatched on her laptop while she scrolls through her social media for something to pique her interest. 

Just as Yaz pauses on an advert for a screenwriting job based in a broadcasting company in the city centre, her phone _pings_ with a new message. 

_sonya [10:46PM] can i use ur netflix tomorrow evening im having a movie night w afia and soph and im broke love u_

Yaz rolls her eyes at the wall set between their rooms before she types out a quick message back. 

_yaz [10:47PM] ur in the bedroom next to me why couldnt u just come into my room and ask_

_sonya [10:47PM] effort_

_sonya [10:48PM] so was that a yes or a yes_

Silencing her laptop to keep her from having to rewind the whole programme after her lapse in attention, Yaz flops down against her pillows and breathes a sigh through her nose. 

_yaz [10:50PM] what do i get out of this_

_sonya [10:50PM] im saving u from ur sad lonely night in u should be thanking me_

Yaz scoffs. Staying in with a takeaway and shitty television isn’t _that_ bad. 

She’d even go as far as labelling it self care if it didn’t cause Sonya’s teasing to increase tenfold. 

_yaz [10:51PM] hate u_

_sonya [10:52PM] love u too gn sis x_

With tomorrow evening now spoiled and Yaz’s reluctance to hang around the flat like a bad smell while her sister has friends around, she unfortunately only has one fall-back option. 

After muffling a groan into her pillow, Yaz rolls out of bed and scans through the contents of her wardrobe for something resembling a party outfit. 

A hasty search comes up empty and, deciding to try her luck in town in the morning, Yaz scoops her phone back up and drags Bill’s conversation thread to the forefront. 

_yazzypants [11:15PM] what time for tomorrow ??_

While she fidgets restlessly, plucking at the inseam of her pyjama shorts and gnawing her lip, Yaz thinks through the prospect of an apartment full of people she doesn’t know like the plot of a well-paced horror film. 

_billbo [11:17PM] you’re coming???_

Faltering, Yaz chews at the inside of her lip until copper assaults her tongue. 

_yazzypants [11:19PM] didnt say that_

_billbo [11:19PM] legend. party kicks off at 7 but u can come early if u want so its not too busy?_

Despite herself, Bill’s words do some justice. Appeased, her churning gut eases. 

But she’s still got to play it cool. 

_yazzypants [11:21PM] thanks ill let u know_

_billbo [11:23PM] knew you’d come around in the end_

_yazzypants [11:24PM] changed my mind have a good night x_

_billbo [11:26PM] see u there babes <3 _

Yaz scoffs, scanning through her Instagram between messages and pinching her brows at pictures of old university friends partying and travelling and falling in love. 

It takes another half an hour for her to quit her self-pitying scroll through social media and by that time, her apprehension over the following day has only amped up. The thought of turning up with the potential of bumping into university mates she hasn’t seen in years with no one at her side tops the possibility of recognising absolutely no one. 

Sitting up, she slips from her bed with a grunt. 

Light still spills from the carpet beneath Sonya’s door and, hesitating for only a moment, Yaz knocks on the varnished surface in a four-beat rhythm. 

“I didn’t take your straighteners. You probably left them in the bathroom again!” she hears from inside as she opens the door, breathing a huff of laughter. 

“I’m not here for that,” Yaz discloses, peeking her head around the door and fiddling with the handle. “Just wondering if you wanted to watch a film or something?”

Dressed in her green university hoodie and a pair of leggings and lounging on her bed with her phone in her hand, Sonya eyes Yaz’s skittish disposition in curiosity. 

Averting her gaze to the bohemian tapestry strung up behind Sonya’s bed, Yaz awaits her sister’s silent observations. 

“You alright?” she probes after a beat. 

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

Sonya sighs. “Yaz.”

“Bill’s having a party tomorrow night, so I’m just a bit... y’know,” Yaz divulges with a shrug. She closes the door behind her when Sonya pats the space at her side, climbing onto the double mattress and tucking her knees up to her chest. “Don’t know if I’m even going to go yet.” 

“What’s stopping you?” Sonya poses as she drags her laptop open and pulls up Netflix. “It’d be good for you to get out there. And isn’t she your best mate?”

“Yeah, I just — she’s got this big job and she knows all these people — and you know her; she could hold a conversation with a lampost if she wanted,” Yaz reels, dropping her chin to the folded arms atop her knees and breathing a groan. “I’m in my twenties, Son. I shouldn’t get this wound up about a stupid party.”

When Yaz lifts her head only to let it fall back against the wall behind her with a thud, then repeat the motion, Sonya stops her with a hand at her shoulder. “Hey. Stop that. And just ‘case you’re in your twenties, it doesn’t mean this all magically disappears. Everyone gets nervous, no matter how old they are. Your head’s just a bit meaner about it.”

Yaz peels herself away from the wall and shrugs her shoulders, reaching for a cushion at the end of her sister’s bed so she can curl her arms around it instead. “Thanks, I guess?”

“Cool. Wanna watch _Mean Girls?_ ”

“Sure.”

“And you’re not going to fall asleep this time?”

Sonya earns a shove for that. “Definitely not.” 

When Yaz wakes up the next morning in unfamiliar territory, Sonya is there to call her out with a smug, chiding, “I told you.”

* * *

Students, skiving school kids and businesspeople alike bustle around her like a swarm of bees. The city centre is flooded with activity and from where Yaz takes a breather outside her favourite cafe chain, she spots a mop of messy blonde hair across the square. 

A pair of weathered yellow converse barely held together by their soles land aggressively atop a rainbow-splattered skateboard when the blonde lands a trick, albeit clumsily. There’s a burgundy hoodie loose on their shoulders with rainbow stripes down the length of their arms and a pair of black and white pinstriped trousers snug around their hips. 

Each time they complete a move, those same trousers hug slim thighs and calves and their expression shifts into that of puerile glee. 

When Yaz refocuses on the crowds between them, she’s embarrassed to find herself smiling along. 

In the wake of her next sip of coffee, a shocked yell and a high-pitched squeal echo from the same direction where the blonde had been skating seconds ago. 

Her head jerks up in alarm to find an irritated businessman with coffee spilt over his otherwise pristine white shirt and a very sheepish counterpart scooping up their skateboard and an empty coffee cup from the concrete tiles beneath their feet. 

The skater she’s been admiring for the last few minutes appears to crack a joke which barely scrapes the surface on the middle aged man’s stony expression. 

The crestfallen frown which graces their features when the bloke snaps at them and begins storming away almost makes Yaz want to pause him in his angered journey to step in on their defence — but to say what; she has no idea. 

Preoccupied by glaring holes into the man’s skull, Yaz doesn’t notice the blonde stranger’s own gaze on her until she turns in her seat to check them over in mild concern. 

As soon as their eyes meet, Yaz freezes like a toddler caught experimenting with her nani’s old henna dyes. 

Not that that ever happened. 

Anyway. 

Now that she can see the skater’s features directly, all the zeal and confidence she’d usually cast sinks to the floor at her feet, packs a bag and heads off on holiday. She probably looks a lot like a fish for the few seconds it takes for the handsome blonde to grin in brazen awareness, roll up their sleeves to their inked elbows and drop back onto their board. 

She thinks she hears a string of jumbled curses in her own voice but before she has the chance to react; to scoop her esteem off the gum-stained paving beneath her and use it to introduce herself, the stranger has been swallowed by the crowds. 

Kicking herself for missing her chance, Yaz slips from her seat and distracts herself with her task at hand; finding an outfit for the party. 

But it still doesn’t stop her freezing up with every flash of dirty blonde hair in her peripherals. 

  
  


* * *

By the time she returns to her shared flat, the outfit she’d spent half her earnings on for the week has cast any other thoughts away. It burns through the bag at Yaz’s side in a guilty reminder that she should be tighter with her money, but seeing as it’s a one-off occurrence, she ignores the warning churn in her gut. 

Sonya is ready and waiting in the living room when Yaz slips through the door and heads inside. “Did you find something? Can I see?”

“Feels like you’re more excited about this party than me. Y’know, if you ask nicely, I’m sure Bill would be happy to invite you instead—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hang out with your weird mates.”

“They’re not weird,” Yaz scoffs, dumping the bag on the sofa beside her sister and slumping onto the arm of the chair while she watches her rummage through the contents. 

Only once Sonya has scooped the black bodice forming the main component of her outfit out of the bag does Yaz pipe in again. “What do you think?”

“Honest opinion?”

“No. Okay, maybe — yes.”

“If you wear this tonight you’re _definitely_ going to get some pus—-” 

Yaz cringes. “Nevermind.”

“Fine. You’re going to get lucky. That better?” Sonya quips, tossing the garment Yaz’s way. 

Bodice caught in her hands, Yaz curls her top lip. “Still weird.”

After plucking free a pair of plain black jeans from Yaz’s shopping bag, Sonya’s gaze lingers on a denim jacket. She draws it out with furrowed brows and parted lips; on the back the jacket is customised with a swirling pattern and a golden sun usually saved for their one-off attempts at henna. 

“Wait — isn’t this the one I showed you the other day?”

“Yeah,” Yaz surmises, lips twitching with the pull of a small smile. 

Sonya lfts her gaze from the fashionably decorated material, frowning. “Did you buy it for yourself?”

Scooping her new purchases — minus the denim jacket in her sister’s possession — into her arms and turning for her room, Yaz shakes her head. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’. 

The jacket lowers in time with Sonya’s rising eyebrows. “Then who did you —” 

“You, y’idiot,” Yaz answers with a roll of her eyes, cheeks warming. “Now don’t say I don’t appreciate you.”

“ _Yaz_ , this is really expensive,” Sonya argues in surprise. Nonetheless, she slips the garment over her shoulders and jogs towards the nearest mirror. “This must’ve cost half your wages.”

“Been working overtime lately, so I had some cash left over,” Yaz shrugs, her free hand finding the curve of the door and fingering the flecking, weathered paint. 

“Yaz. I still don’t know if I got that job yet — I can’t afford—” 

“Don’t mention it,” Yaz interjects with another roll of her shoulders. “So long as you can do my makeup later?”

Sonya nods, features alight with a mix of pleasant surprise and exasperation. “I knew there’d be a catch. Still — it’s a deal. Thanks, Yaz. You didn’t need to do that.”

“Are you getting sappy on me?”

Rolling her eyes, Sonya jogs over and — before her older sister has a chance to hesitate — wraps her up in a squeezing, earnest hug. “Shut up, weirdo.”

  
  


* * *

Yaz’s plan to turn up at Bill’s party early falls through the minute she answers the phone to her mother and indulges her in work gossip. Honestly, it’s a surprise her mother ever gets any work done since half her time seems to be spent eavesdropping on her colleagues' conversations. 

By the time she’s reassured her mother that she’s doing fine, figured out which of Najia’s work friends is _Cindy_ and which bloke is her respective secret lover, _and_ made sure her sister has eaten, she’s almost a full hour late to her best friend’s celebrations. 

When Bill answers the door, however, Yaz is relieved to find glee painting her features rather than the irritation her overworked and overthinking mind had feared. 

“Yaz!” Bill greets, the alcohol on her breath betraying her tipsy nature even before she swings her arms around her shoulders in a clumsy hug. 

There’s a steady stream of strangers loitering and gathering behind Bill when Yaz pulls back to eye the open plan, boldly-decorated apartment she’s so used to. Ignoring the way her stomach churns, Yaz regards her best mate in playful annoyance. “You started without me?”

“Sorry, princess,” Bill snickers and steps aside to grant her entrance, eyes grazing where lace bodice meets cleavage. “Come on, let me grab you a drink.” 

Yaz rolls her eyes, adjusting the leather jacket over her shoulders and padding into the busy threshold. “If y’think you can keep your eyes up for long enough, sure.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” Bill counters with a smirk. “You look fit as fuck, mate.”

With a moisture-coated bottle in hand, Yaz sticks to Bill’s side through introduction after introduction to her colleagues and friends alike. It only takes a few healthy sips of her beer to ease the protesting muscles in her stomach, but it doesn’t halt their efforts entirely. 

She spots a pair of encroaching yellow converse before she sets eyes on a familiar stranger. 

“No way,” Bill breathes from her side but she’s only half paying attention.

Instead, Yaz follows scruffy, weathered laces to slim ankles and cuffed black skinny jeans all the way up to a white tank top, and a _hideously_ bright red and green hawaiian shirt. A blue denim jacket sits atop the monstrosity. 

Somehow, it’s owner makes the piece work. 

_Get yourself together. It’s just a shirt,_ Yaz chides herself. 

When she lifts her gaze, stopping for a moment to admire the blonde’s mustard yellow beanie, she finds a smirk in their eyes. 

As though caught with her mother’s favourite makeup, Yaz blushes beetroot and takes in the Suddenly Very Interesting bottle on the counter beside her. 

“You made it!” Oblivious to Yaz’s dilemma, Bill launches in for an embrace which sends the blonde a handful of steps back. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Bill’s parties? Amazin’. Can’t miss this,” she hears them over the increasing volume of Bill’s residence, voice husky in a way which toys at Yaz’s stomach muscles like a cat with its winged victim.

When Bill draws back, she’s quick to turn to Yaz in clear excitement. Yaz feels two pairs of eyes on her in an instant — the latter coaxing her insides into disarray. 

_Huh. Must be someone special._

While anyone else might feel jealous, Yaz is intrigued. 

“Yaz, this is Bowie,” Bill announces with a grin, every inch a fangirl to Bowie’s modest reaction. “They’re the best freelance filmmaker in the country.” 

Yaz catches sight of inked skin when her acquaintance offers a hand to shake. She wonders how far the spiralling pattern winds up their arm — does it join another further up? Does it envelop the toned biceps hugged by their shirt and jacket?

_Whoa. Reign it in._

Clearing her throat, Yaz responds to Bowie’s friendly squeeze with a gentle shake. “Yaz; nice to meet you.”

Bowie squeezes again, fingers cool and firm. When they smirk, Yaz mentally slaps herself in the face. “Yeah, Bill just said—” 

“Oh! Yeah, sorry. Silly me,” Yaz winces, throat heavy. Bowie toys with the ends of her fingers before letting go entirely, leaving the sensation to linger in their wake. 

“Wait — Yaz? Yasmin Khan?” Bowie pipes up before Yaz has another chance to mortify herself, but the query has Yaz’s thoughts tripping over themselves anyway. 

Bowie reaches their epiphany at the same time as Yaz opens her mouth to question their knowledge. When they readjust their jacket, a pin glints in the neon lights decorating Bill’s bold flat and emphasises its yellow, white, purple and black stripes. It takes Yaz less than a second to deduce and less than that to adapt.

“Bill’s shown me some of your photos at work.” 

The woman in question, when Yaz turns to curse her, has mysteriously disappeared from sight. How convenient. “Oh, _God_ , no. I don’t even want to think about which ones she’s made you suffer through.”

The green-tinted bottle Bowie sips from is unfamiliar; its contents are a cloudy tan colour and its label presents a proud stag. 

She’s too engulfed in attempting to translate the words on the condensation-warped sticker to notice Bowie’s faintly chiding expression. “Don’t put yourself down like that, Yaz. I _loved_ them. You deserve a place in the business.”

Yaz’s answering scoff lifts Bowie’s brows to the cotton of their beanie but before they can continue their mission of encouragement, someone calls their name from across the room. 

“Ryan?” Bowie murmurs more to themself than for anyone else’s benefit. Leaning up on their tiptoes, they spy a dark-skinned bloke with a challenging smirk stood before a table of beer pong. Said smirk only lasts as long as it takes for Yaz to bravely level their eyes again, after which they seem to soften with genuine disappointment. “Sorry, Yaz. Can’t lose my winning streak. I’ll catch you around, though, alright?”

“Yeah, cool. I mean — no problem,” Yaz nods, pursing her lips in an effort to look unaffected and suave. “Good luck.”

“Cheers, babe,” Bowie hums, offering up a wink on their way.

Was that — were they — was that flirting?

Yaz watches them saunter off with a hard swallow of chilled beer, and only once they’ve merged into the small crowd does she drag a hand over her face and groan. 

“The shower is just off the hallway if you need a cold one, mate,” Bill suddenly whispers in her ear, startling Yaz from her thoughts and scattering them across the wooden panels at her booted feet. 

“Shut up.” Yaz rolls her eyes, grateful that her hair casts protection over her hot cheeks. 

Apparently, though, her defences are lax. 

Bill slings an arm over her shoulders and seeks out her flushed expression. “Oh, my _god_ , your _face_.” She glances between Yaz and the blonde bumping fists across the room in utmost glee, the smirk on her face insinuating that she’s going to let this go any time soon. “You should get their num—” 

“No. Nope. No way. Shut up.”

“Aw, mate. I’ve never seen you like this,” Bill counters, taking her rare chance to rib her best friend and running with it. 

Yaz tries to shrug Bill’s arm off but her tipsy friend simply clings tighter. “Like what? I’m fine. This is me normally.”

“You should get their number,” Bill repeats, taking a noisy, obnoxious sip from her beer. 

Yaz shakes her head, nose scrunching when Bill decides it’s a good idea to disguise a burp into her ear. She’ll be lucky to still have the ability to digest soon. “Quit burping on me, mate. And no.”

“What’s stopping you?”

She’s asked that question far too often for her own good. Inhaling through her nose, Yaz raises her glass. “Oh, my bottle’s empty. Get me another drink?” 

“Liquid courage, huh?”

This time, Yaz gives her a shove. “Shut up and get me a beer, wench.”

“You know I love it when you go all bossy on me, babes.”

“If you don’t —”

“Alright, alright. Yes, ma’am.” 

  
  


* * *

There’s a bass guitar thrumming from between the mesh of Bill’s speakers and a woman’s deep, throaty voice filling the quiet groups of conversations cannot. There’s been two red wine spillages and a short, drunken speech from her best friend and still, Bowie is challenging anyone and everyone to a game of highly competitive beer pong. 

They’ve won six times in a row so far. 

Not that Yaz has been keeping count. 

But, really, who can blame her when every victory leaves the blonde with their arms raised and a toned, tattooed stomach on display? And their eyes on Yaz, looking for proof she’d witnessed their win?

“Oi, Yaz!” their namesake calls over the sound of conversing colleagues and friends, inclining their head towards the old ping pong table where red solo cups are filled to the brim in an orderly pattern. “Fancy a game? You can be on my team?”

There’s a self-satisfied smirk on their lips when they take a long swig of beer and watch Yaz approach. 

“How’s it going?” Bowie greets once she’s close enough, setting their foreign bottle aside and shrugging off their denim jacket. Their green eyes are glossy with alcohol and mirth and Yaz swallows against her dry throat. “Y’look a bit lost.”

Yaz ducks her head and studies the toes of her boots at the realisation they’d taken notice. When she straightens up again, the alcohol in her system keeps her from shrinking away. It also helps that they’re in the corner of the room and all those nearby are engrossed in conversation. Even the two strangers they’re up against are chattering between themselves. “Not great with strangers. I get anxious so I usually follow Bill around like a lost puppy until she shakes me off.”

Smirk wilting into a genuine, easy smile, Bowie nods in wise understanding. “That’s understandable. Here, take one.”

Opening their palm, two ping pong balls lay atop an inked rose. 

“Nice ink,” Yaz compliments, plucking one up for herself. 

“Cheers, babe,” Bowie quips, dimples leaping to the surface of their cheeks. “Got most of them while travelling.”

Now she’s close enough, Yaz is able to admire the sleeves of colour maring their arms, too. She spots the phases of the moon lining the inside of their wrist when they step in line to throw the first go, then the intricately patterned sun on their forearm. A compass and a clock lay melded together, peeking out from the hem of their shirt sleeve and the Aries constellation paints the junction of their left hand and thumb.

A cheer rings out during Yaz’s quiet exploration which brings her back around with a start. Scanning the table, she grins at the sight of Bowie’s perfect shot and their groaning opponents. 

“Too bad, guys. Drink up,” Bowie taunts with a beaming, salacious grin. When they turn Yaz’s way, she has to keep herself from holding her breath. 

It’s like staring into the sun sans protection from its rays. 

Bowie’s green hues flit down to her parted lips before resettling. 

Their opponents take a shot and miss in the time it takes them to look away. 

“Your turn, Yaz,” Bowie enthuses, coming up beside her with a hand on her shoulder. They instruct her as though they’re children making a plan of attack amidst a snowball fight or a game of mob. “I reckon you should go for the middle one. If it misses that, it should still land in the one on the left,” they murmur, but Yaz can only focus on the musky scented cologne seeping from their form in waves. Her nostrils flare, eager for more to take into her lungs. 

“Middle one. Got it,” Yaz surmises, determination setting her jaw while Bowie’s touch lingers against her shoulder. She narrows her eyes in focus and aims. 

The ping pong ball lands with a satisfying _plop_. 

Yaz’s grip finds Bowie’s forearm in an instant and, beaming, she drags their attention her way to find them already watching with a smirk. “Did y’see that?”

Winding an arm around her shoulders as though they’ve done so a thousand times before, Bowie fixes her with a breezy grin. “Dream team, I reckon.” 

They conquer the game with expert ease and tactile contact which leaves Yaz reeling. 

After knocking back a red cup full of cheap beer, however, Bowie steps aside to answer their phone with pinched brows. 

Left to linger while Bowie escapes to a quieter part of the flat, Yaz checks the time and smiles politely at the tipsy acquaintances dotted around the open-plan space to ease the sudden pressure in her chest. 

She can’t see Bill anywhere nearby and with Bowie momentarily occupied, she fetches a can of cider from the fridge, plucks her phone from her back pocket and searches for solace away from the partygoers. 

The only quiet she manages to seek out, however, is on the modest balcony set just shy of Bill’s messy bedroom. 

She takes a step into the cool air before she realises she’s not the only one present. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Yaz rushes out the instant she notices Bowie leant against the railings with their mobile pressed to their ear. 

The commotion forces them to turn and regard her in surprise, but it turns to mild affection in an instant. “It’s okay,” they mouth silently, “just finishing up.” 

The voice on the other end of the line chatters away at a mile and a minute and, leaning against the opposite railing, Yaz stifles a chuckle at Bowie’s rolling eyes and interrupted responses. 

“Alright, See you on Monday, first thing,” they eventually conclude, toying with the tie of their rope bracelet and tapping their foot impatiently. “Yes, of _course_. You better’ve kept my succulents watered. And if you went in my snack drawer while I was away, I will find you, and I will kill you.”

Yaz’s amusement draws a smile to Bowie’s face and, after another half a minute of rambling words from the other end of the line, they hang up with a quick _awesome, bye!_

Slipping their phone into their pocket and pulling their yellow beanie back over their ears to protect against the cold, Bowie clears their throat. “Sorry — my temporary boss; she thinks she can ring whenever she likes.”

“I thought you were freelance?” Yaz pipes up, taking a sip from her can. 

“Still can’t get away with doing my own thing all the time, apparently. I’m working with _Blue Box_ for a few months, so Donna’s made herself my boss until the film’s done just in case I need to get some extra footage together.”

Yaz’s chest yearns for Bowie’s work details but, pushing it down so she doesn’t come across as some kind of fangirl, she leans back against the railing and watches her breaths plume in the cool air. There’s a pylon sat at the top of the hill in the near distance which blinks at them in quiet observation. 

“I didn’t — um — I didn’t follow you out here, by the way. Just wanted to get some air,” Yaz explains to Bowie’s side profile. 

“‘Course not,” Bowie croons, turning to better face her. Their tongue is caught between their teeth when they smirk. “It’s alright, I get it. I’m a catch.”

_You have no idea._

“Modest, too,” Yaz murmurs. 

Breathing a laugh which echoes in the street below, Bowie dips their hand into their jacket pocket and glances back towards the flat in a suspicious motion. 

Yaz catches sight of a lighter and a perfectly rolled joint before she lifts her gaze to Bowie’s sheepish expression. “D’you mind if I —”

“Nah. Course not. Go for it,” Yaz dismisses, observing the way deft fingers smooth along the edge as they draw it to their lips. 

The wind nor the lighter’s fuel work in their favour when they raise their lighter to catch the end, and despite how much she likes the frustrated little crease between their brows, Yaz steps in to offer a hand. “Let me.”

“Been meaning to get a new one,” Bowie grumbles around the blunt, leaning in when Yaz flicks the lighter ablaze on her first go. Cupping her hand around the end to abate the breeze, Yaz lets the tip catch alight. 

Bowie hums their gratitude on their first steady inhale, lashes fluttering. They hold it with ease for a handful of seconds before exhaling through their nose in a misty plume.

Yaz follows the effect of the drug on Bowie’s body language, noting the way their shoulders loosen and their pupils, when they drift back open, turn glossy and hazy. There’s something alluring in their stance; in the easy way they lean against the railings and take another drag. 

Noticing Yaz’s observant quiet, Bowie offers the joint her way. “Sharing is caring.”

Her lips twist and purse in indecision before a single, arched brow from Bowie forces her to give in. 

Quelling a shiver at the next breeze to ruffle her curls and prick at her skin, Yaz accepts the rolled spliff and draws it to her mouth. She thinks she spots Bowie tracking the movement when she takes a slow inhale. It tastes sweet, like the strawberry lip gloss she’d lost herself to last time her and Bill had gone out on the town. “S’this flavoured?”

Nodding, Bowie grins; the lazy, infectious kind. “Yeah. Stopped off in Amsterdam a few months back and looked for a custard cream version.”

“They didn’t have any,” they finish when Yaz’s eyes widen in surprise. The pout they send her way digs its claws into Yaz’s chest and fills it with candyfloss and, resolutely, Yaz takes another drag, encouraging her muscles to loosen. 

In the meantime, she joins Bowie in leaning her elbows against the railings and taking in Sheffield’s cityscape. Another breath later, she hands the joint back in a trade for Bowie’s momentary attention. 

“Do you travel a lot, then?” Yaz quips when the lights in the distance begin to dance in pairs and a muted crash sounds from inside the flat. 

In the wake of her next trembling shiver, Bowie melds their shoulders together, eyes on the sky. “Just got back from a trip around Europe, actually. Working, mostly, but I still managed to get a proper amazin’ holiday out of it. Could get used to living in my van permanently, too, t’be honest.” 

Yearning jealousy curling around her most vital organ, Yaz ducks her head to eye the street below and picks at the faulty fairy lights coiled around the metal railings. 

At her side, Bowie shifts, turning to face her. “What about you, Yaz? I feel like you know far too much about me and I know hardly anything about you.” The furrow to their brow communicates their honesty but where that fails, their eyes are immersed in earnest curiosity. 

Yaz wonders briefly if this is how ancient treasures feel at the hands of awestruck architects. 

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Yaz admits, still facing the skyline. “But — uh — didn’t really get so lucky.”

Bowe’s attention is resolute and patient and Yaz’s for the taking. 

So she grasps it with both hands and catches their gaze. “I went for a job as a photographer straight from uni,” she starts, the relaxant in her system easing the hold of anxiety on her lungs and keeping her thoughts from tripping over themselves in a rush to silence her. “Got to the interview, sat in the waiting room and took a look at another candidate’s portfolio for them. They were getting nervous and asked for a second pair of eyes.”

The space between Bowie’s eyebrows creases and, somehow, Yaz thinks they can predict the rest of her story. 

“I took one look, saw how talented they were, and bolted as soon as I could,” Yaz laughs, elbows finding the railings and head ducking. Her eyes slip from the horizon to the dimly lit streets. “Got a job working in _spoons_ the week after to pay my half of the rent and I haven’t been able to walk into an interview since.”

“Yaz.” 

“Shit — I didn’t mean to — I totally brought down the mood, didn’t I?” Yaz groans, curls curtaining her face. Bowie’s likely just sticking around to be polite, at this rate. “Sorry,” she breathes on instinct.

“Your portrait shots are incredible,” Bowie muses, surprising her. They seem perfectly unaffected by her overthinking brain and swift assumptions, taking each comment in their languid, confident stride. “What do you like capturing the most?”

And, really, Yaz could write them a novel in answer and still have more to say.

“People,” Yaz answers in truth, cheeks warm in modest embarrassment, “I think they’re fascinating. And I might not always be the most confident in social gatherings but it’s only because I find people so impressive. Everyone has a story and their own unique experiences; memories; beliefs. It’s intimidating. Picturing even a snapshot of someone going about their life is good enough for me. Not to sound like a stalker.”

When Bowie takes a moment too long to respond, Yaz searches their expression for ridicule like second nature. “D’you get what I mean? It’s hard to explain.”

“I understand perfectly,” Bowie confirms with an expression Yaz can’t quite decipher. “And, mate, that sort of passion will get you snatched up in _seconds_ in this industry. You’ve just got to believe in yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” Yaz notes. 

Below them, two young men walk hand in hand between streets. Yaz’s fingers itch with the need to stop time and fetch her camera. “But thank you.” 

“My work starts here, then, I guess,” Bowie murmurs more to themself than their counterpart, then pointedly clears their throat to recapture Yaz’s attention. “Are you busy this Monday?”

Yaz grimaces at the mere reminder she has to return to the godforsaken bar. “I have a morning shift. Eight til’ one.”

“Cancel it,” Bowie shrugs.

“I can’t just —” 

“Yes, you can. I’m helping with a short film for the day and I’m taking you with me. I’ll have _Blue Box_ pay you for your time. If they don’t, I will.” 

“You’re — you can’t just — that’s too kind. There’s got to be a catch somewhere. Is this a nasty joke?”

“Never. I reserve nasty jokes for Bill and Bill only,” Bowie answers, puffing out their chest in pride. “So, are you up for it?”

Yaz squints at her counterpart in mild suspicion but Bowie’s breezy smile casts any doubt away. The blonde shoves their hands into their pockets and rocks on their toes, eyes on Yaz. “C’mon. I’ll make it worthwhile, I promise.”

“Yes,” Yaz says, sensing a double-meaning to their promise especially when mirth joins the dusting of hope in their eyes. “Alright. I’ll come. I mean _I’ll be there._ That’s where I’ll be. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve won something.”

“A day with an exceptional photographer? Think I might’ve won, yeah.” Bowie takes another hit and breathes a sigh. 

“My eyebrows just cringed.”

They smirk through the smoke, eyes darting briefly north. “They’re great eyebrows."

Rolling her eyes, Yaz nods when Bowie offers the near-finished joint her way. Careful, they slot it between her lips but, less cautiously, their fingertips catch the slope of her bottom lip upon disposal. “Thanks,” Yaz whispers around the burning paper, aware of the way Bowie’s eyes settle rather obviously on her mouth. 

Before they have a chance to make head, though, the sliding door to the balcony is swept open and Bill’s head pops around the edge. “There you are! Been looking everywhere for you,” she drawls drunkenly, bobbing her head to the music slipping through the gap. When neither show signs of re-entering, she juts out her bottom lip in a pout. “Come for a boogie with me?”

“Do I have a choice?” Yaz poses. 

“Nope,” Bill smirks. “C’mon.”

Trading a look with Bowie which has _please help me_ written all over it, Yaz blows out her cheeks and edges towards the door. “Alright, fine.”

Stubbing out their joint, Bowie follows her inside with a throaty chuckle. 

As soon as they’re both immersed back into the drunken dishevelment of Bill’s still bustling flat, Yaz feels a warm hand find her lower back and an even warmer body close on her tail.

The music thumps from bass speakers and Yaz tracks the pulsing mesh coating their output in drug-induced transparency. When Bowie’s hand circles her hip as they squeeze through alcohol-breath acquaintances, she can feel the reverberations through to her bones. 

“You okay?” Bowie murmurs into their ear once they’ve reached a throng of those dancing rather than conversing, apparently picking up on Yaz’s stiff movements. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Yaz answers over the persistent volume, all too happy to talk if it keeps Bowie so close to her back, their breath warm on her neck. “Thanks.”

“Brilliant,” she hears Bowie reply into her shoulder. 

Across from her, Bill attempts the robot with a full glass of red wine in hand. The white rug beneath her feet shrinks in fear. 

Bowie’s unrestrained laughter joins their steady breaths in drawing goosebumps to the back of Yaz’s neck and, swallowing a heavy inhale, she joins the rest of the tipsy group in shuffling and swaying to the beat. 

Her drunk best friend and the mix of alcohol and weed in her system brings her confidence up in no time. 

The feel of both of Bowie’s hands dropping to her hips increases it tenfold, especially when the same tactile hands guide her movements.   
  
  


“This okay? I can let go if I’m crowding you,” Bowie asks, lips brushing the curve of her ear. They’re solid and warm at her bac and if anything, she wants them closer. 

She blames their shared joint on the ease in which she leans back against them. She’d never usually be this bold but then again, she’s not usually on the receiving end of such confident attention. 

“That’s — it’s fine. I’m — I’m fine. With what you’re doing. With your hands there,” she stumbles out, Bowie’s responding chuckle breezing along the sensitive skin where her hair parts. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So if I did... _this_.” Bowie turns her suddenly, the room slow to follow until green eyes seek her out and their hold readjusts. “That’s okay too?”

Yaz clears her throat, graze tumbling down their perfect nose to their lips. She nods, only glancing back up when Bowie smirks. “Definitely okay.”

Did someone turn the music off?

No — wait. 

As Yaz refocuses on their surroundings, the slow bass continues. 

“I love this song,” Bowie comments when the music changes — more bass guitar but a different pace. Their head bobs with the beat and they start to loosen their shoulders and somehow, they’re still the most attractive person in the room. 

Yaz takes only a second to recognise the song and another second to mould to Bowie’s guiding hands. “You’re an _Arctic Monkeys_ fan?” 

“Love them,” Bowie answers. “I was the _best_ at karaoke nights back in uni. I know all the words to their songs.” 

“Yeah?” Yaz tilts her head, hands finding Bowie’s forearms. “Can you sing?”

_Please say no._ There has to be something Yaz can find unappealing about them or else they’ve been sent down from the heavens simply to mock her expectations. 

“I can if I’m drunk enough, but I prefer playing guitar.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Yaz breathes aloud. She clasps a hand over her mouth as soon as the thought accidentally bares itself to the room, but it’s too late. 

Smug, Bowie ducks their head and taps out the chords forming the chorus against Yaz’s hip. They’re smirking when Yaz catches their eye again and Yaz’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

“Shut up,” Yaz bristles.

Bowie captures their bottom lip between their teeth and grins slyly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Not with words, no.”

The drug easing through her bloodstream takes effect belatedly but no less effectively. She’s not a stranger to the effects — if she knew she was in any danger from their impact, she’d never have embraced it — so when the joint works to relax her muscles and slow her usually bustling thoughts, she allows it willingly. 

The same must be said for Bowie if their dilated pupils and lazy movements are anything to go by. Still, it doesn’t stop them drawing her closer when Bill bumbles past on unsteady legs. 

Yaz breathes in the scent of musky cologne and peppermint, letting it settle heavy in her lungs like it’s making its home there. 

She can witness the bob of Bowie’s throat easier from this angle. If she could only sink a touch closer, lift her head a touch higher, and greet the moving flesh with her lips, she could say she’d had an encounter with a god. 

“Are y’thirsty?” Bowie voices an unknown length of time later, the crowd around them growing rowdier and more uncoordinated by the second. In comparison, the pair of them seem sober. 

Yaz debates answering _extremely_ and dragging them off to the nearest empty room to prove just how much. “Kinda,” she emits instead, throat dry. 

Bowie’s fingers squeeze her hips and they draw back, wetting their lips. Yaz misses the contact instantly. “I’ll be right back.”

With a lingering grin, Bowie weaves through the other occupiers of the open living room and heads for the kitchen. 

Searching for some space, Yaz ambles towards the nearest floor-to-ceiling window and slips her phone from her pocket to check through her notifications. The last thing she wants to find is that she’s had a text from her boss to ask her to come in tomorrow. 

Thankfully, she only finds a handful of spam emails and a text from her sister informing her not to return with a stranger, and if she does, to _use protection_. 

Yaz scoffs, shaking her head. At the same time, clumsy arms wind around her shoulders and jostle her back a step. 

“You ‘n Bowie seem cosy,” Bill croons into her hair. 

Yaz rolls her eyes. “So do you and the floor.” 

“S’fine, I’ve chundered. I’m good to go again,” Bill bites back, lifting her head to give a lazy thumbs up. Yaz grimaces but gives her the benefit of the doubt. If anyone can hold their alcohol well, it’s Bill. 

“You do realise we’re not university students anymore, right?”

“Don’t ruin the vibe, Yaz,” Bill detaches herself with a grunt, heels clicking against wooden panels. “I’m getting more wine, you comin’?” 

“Nah, you’re alright,” Yaz says to disguise the way she’s simply awaiting Bowie’s return. 

“‘Course you are. Don’t think I didn’t spot you and Bowie smoking weed earlier, you sneaky bastards. I’m telling Najia.”

Yaz smirks. “You wouldn’t _dare_.” 

“Yeah, I would. Right after I take her on a date.” 

Her smirk falls. Yaz narrows her eyes and squares her shoulders instead. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, babe!” Bill chimes, already on her way to claim another bottle of wine. “That’s my best mate,” she drawls to those she passes, pointing Yaz’s way. “Her mum is fit as fuck.”

Yaz is so busy ensuring she doesn’t stumble on her journey to notice eyes on her. At first, anyway. 

It doesn’t take long, however, to hone in on watchful pupils and find a familiar face looking back. 

“Shit,” she breathes, averting her gaze after a moment’s hesitation. The last time she’d seen the curly-haired woman with perfect skin and flawless confidence was when she’d bolted from the interview room two years prior. 

She’d remembered every single face from that day; ingrained them onto her memory for shameful reminders and nights spent drowning in her own missed opportunities. 

Her ribs should ache with how suddenly her heart kicks into overload and her lungs into over employment. The corners of her vision prick with tiny black dots and she doesn’t doubt for a second that she might be spiralling. 

Fight or flight instinct introducing itself to her legs, she doesn’t realise she’s moving until she almost walks straight into Bowie, who holds two bottles of water in hand. 

They must recognise the signs for the beginnings of a panic attack because they grow wide-eyed, reaching out but not forming contact. 

“Are you okay?” Bowie poses quiet enough not to draw attention to them both; another hint that they have experience in the situation. “What’s happened?”

“Do you want to get out of here?” Yaz asks as more of a plea than a simple question. 

“Wait — right now?” 

Already, Yaz has turned towards the door to Bill’s flat, feet moving independently to the rest of her body. Her mind’s a blur and the room is closing in on her and there’s _so many people_. “It’s fine. If you don’t want to come, that’s alright. I can make my own way h—” 

“No. No way. Alright, let’s go.” Pocketing their bottled water and grabbing the skateboard resting against the wall in the hallway, Bowie follows on her tail. 

The instant they’re free of partygoers; of laughing couples and drunk prodigies and embarrassing reminders, Yaz can breathe again. One of the four walls of the lift is where her forehead comes to rest before the door even closes, the cool metal a faux-ice pack and a numbing force for her tension-filled skull. 

“You’re alright, Yaz,” Bowie encourages without preoccupation, letting their palm come to rest against the space between Yaz’s shoulders. “Do you have any breathing exercises you usually do?”

“I’m okay,” Yaz sighs, cheeks flushing in embarrassment the minute she senses her lungs giving a relieved tremble and her brain slowing back down. “It’s not a bad one this time. I just — I just needed some space. Sorry.” 

While Yaz takes some exercised inhalations out of instinct, Bowie continues gentle, patient circular motions against her back. Yaz thinks she can feel their fingers trembling as she peels herself away from the silver metal wall. “Stop apologising, honestly. It’s okay. It happens.”

“Thank you,” Yaz offers as she turns, taking in Bowie’s slightly enlarged pupils and the way they’ve suddenly shrunken into themselves. “Are _you_ okay? Y’look a bit pale.” 

Bowie winces as though it pains them to admit their disposition. “Not a fan of lifts, that’s all. It’s okay, though. I can meet you at the bottom if you want? Got my board, so I won’t take long.”

If the idea of Bowie taking their skateboard down solid concrete stairs didn’t already alarm her enough, the sight of Bowie’s puppy-like expression backing out of the lift compared to the cool, suave personality she’d been getting to know definitely works to change her mind. 

“Hey, no. The stairs are fine,” Yaz reasons, stepping out from enclosed metal and back onto solid floors. She falls in line with them in a slow amble towards the fire exit, noting the tension leaving their shoulders instantly. 

Bowie’s hand bumps against hers halfway along the corridor. Their tone is concerned. “What happened back there, Yaz? Did someone say something to you?” 

Ducking her head and catching their pinky finger, Yaz’s stomach muscles flip. “I saw someone; they were from the interview I mentioned. I haven’t really thought about it in a while; I try not to. Until then, anyway. It was a lot, all at once. And I have anxiety, so that just makes everything worse.”

Bowie breathes a hum of acknowledgment and sweeps forward to open the fire exit door for her, stepping aside until she’s through before joining her at the stairs. “Thanks for telling me that, though. You didn’t have to, and I think you’re proper brave for bein’ so honest.”

Suddenly flushed and not sure how to respond to their praise, Yaz wets her lips and shoves her free hand into her — oh. She must’ve forgotten her jacket. There’s no way she’s going back up, though. Not now. 

Even after bracing for the cold, Yaz succumbs to goosebumps the second they greet Sheffield’s autumn night air. 

The warm body at her side pauses, the wheels of their skateboard meeting the tarmac with a _smack_ a second later. “Cold?” Bowie quips, feet on the board and hands on their faux fur-lined denim jacket. “Here, take this. I’ve got three layers on already.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Yaz, that wasn’t a question. Put my jacket on before you get icicles on your eyelashes.”

“I mean, I _really_ doubt that’s going to happen any time soon—”

Yaz laughs as Bowie literally wrangles the oversized garment over her shoulders before hopping back onto their board with one foot. “Now, can y’hold my hand while I skate so I don’t leave you behind?”

“You know, if you want to hold my hand, you could just ask.”

“I just did, didn’t I?” Smugly, Bowie slips their fingers between the gaps in Yaz’s and sets both feet in place. 

“Wait, is this just an excuse to make me drag you along so you don’t have to put as much energy in?” 

“Yep. It worked, didn’t it?”

“Arsehole—” 

“Yaz! There are fox cubs everywhere around here _._ Do y’want them to hear you cuss just as they wake up?” 

Yaz’s laughter greets the cold air in a plume of condensation and beside her, Bowie kicks off the ground for more speed. She doesn’t even know where they’re going — the turning for her flat passes by with no concern from either party. 

Yaz allows Bowie to lead the way, the rusty wheels of their board loud in the sparse streets. 

“Did you want to go straight home?” they pipe up in time, Hawaiian shirt flowing at their back when they head down a short decline. “Or d’you fancy going for a walk?”

Yaz decides not to mention they’re heading further and further away from her flat with each passing minute. 

Tucking Bowie’s jacket closer around her shoulders, Yaz presents them with a curious look. “There’s a spot just at the top of the hill where you can view the whole city,” Yaz points out, motioning towards the dark hill looming over the city. There’s a path leading up between two streets of semi-detached houses just ahead. 

“ _Brilliant_. That’s where I parked up the van for the night.” 

Yaz pauses, bringing Bowie’s skating to a lurching halt. “Wait — don’t you have anywhere to stay?”

“I only got back from France yesterday. Plus, what’s better than having a home you can move wherever you like each night?” Bowie shrugs, unphased. They hop back on the board when Yaz resumes walking, scruffy yellow converse lighting up the dim streets. The drug in her system convinces her that they’re coated in a glow in the dark material.

  
  


Fascination peaking, Yaz indulges herself in more knowledge. “So you live in the van all the time?”

“Pretty much. Unless I’m staying somewhere for more than a few months.” Bowie breaks away momentarily to hop up onto a boulder and check out the view. 

They tuck their board under their arm as they return to Yaz’s side, but don’t hesitate to take her hand anyway. If anything, it’s just to drag her up the hill like an excitable puppy on their first walk. “What about you, Yaz? Do you have your own place?” 

Steadying her breaths for the sudden incline, Yaz keeps her eyes ahead. “I live with my younger sister, Sonya. She’s really annoying but it’s nice to have company sometimes.” 

“Ah, sisters are great,” Bowie grins, kicking a pebble between her feet. 

There’s a minibus peeking out behind a line of thorn bushes over the brow of the hill, where the path evens out. It takes just one look at its tinted windows, blue paintwork and the undecipherable art scrawled over the metal to decipher it as Bowie’s motorhome. 

“I have a little brother,” Bowie divulges, drawing Yaz’s attention back in their direction. There’s something about their tone which sends a pang through Yaz’s chest. “Johnny. He’s a couple years younger.”

Yaz doesn’t request any further details from them, even when Bowie’s hand loosens from hers and they jog forward a handful of steps to skate up a gravel path. They turn a short distance from the van, where a tarmac car park provides a smooth surface on which to continue. “Do you want a go?”

“If you want me to break a limb, sure,” Yaz counters, folding her arms and stepping aside to watch instead. 

Bowie’s expression cracks and with a laugh which echoes gloriously and springs lines to their forehead, they reach for Yaz’s hand. “C’mon. I’ll help.”

After rolling her eyes, Yaz steps onto the weathered, protesting board. Bowie’s fingers twine with hers in an instant. 

There’s a slight downhill gradient and Bowie shoots her a smirk a second before they playfully loosen their hold. 

Yaz squeaks, scrabbling for their arm. “Bowie, If you let go, I’m keying your van.”

“Whoa,” Bowie snickers, their unemployed hand finding Yaz’s waist. “Alright. I’ve got you. Y’can’t hurt her.” 

“Did you just call it _her_?”

“Don’t call her an _it_ , Yaz. She might not let you in,” Bowie warns with a good-natured grin, eyes on Yaz’s boot-clad feet. “Now kick off with your right foot. I’ll be right here.” 

Leaning heavily into Bowie’s chest (more for the addictive aroma of fresh air and something faintly earthy rather than balance), Yaz takes a shaky push forward with the toes of her boot. 

Three kicks later, Yaz glides forward at a pace just shy of a tortoise. 

“Better curb it, babe,” Bowie chimes, shirt billowing, eyes bright with mirth and hair sweeping about their face. “You’re going too fast.” 

Under the only streetlight on the hill in the middle of the night, they’re exposed but under zero observation. 

Yaz jumps off with a yelp as soon as she picks up any speed, giving Bowie’s shoulder a shove. “Shut up.”

Grinning, Bowie dusts the board down and pulls their beanie closer over their ears. There’s goosebumps on their inked arms and Yaz makes a note to suggest heading somewhere warmer before they catch a cold at her expense. “Come on. Jump on behind me and I’ll show you how it works.”

“You mean show _off_ , right?” Yaz corrects, uncaring of the flirtation lacing her words. There’s few reasons for subtlety at this stage; she’s followed her up a near-mountain just so they can spend more time together, for God’s sake. 

“Yep,” Bowie quips, popping the ‘p’. 

Yaz doesn’t resist, though. Climbing on behind them, she sweeps both arms around their waist and clings on for dear life. Beneath her palms sits tense muscles and, chin hooked over their shoulder, she enjoys more than just the breeze in her hair. 

“If you go too fast, I’m pushin’ you off first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Considering the extra weight on the board and the addition of Yaz’s warm breath against their neck, Bowie keeps their composure and coasts around the carpark in a blur. 

By the time they’ve stumbled free, Bowie’s teeth are chattering and Yaz’s feet are aching in her heeled boots. 

“What did you think?” Bowie enthuses as they flip the board back up and let it rest against their shin. “Not too scary?”

“I’ve had worse Uber rides,” Yaz informs just to witness Bowie’s smug grin brighten. Egotism looks good on them, despite how much she’d like to disagree. 

“D’you want to…” Bowie backs up, throwing a nod over their shoulder towards their boldly decorated converted camper. “Come check out my digs?”

Yaz twists her lips in a weak effort to look sceptical. In truth, there’s nothing she’d like more. 

“Promise I won’t kidnap you?” 

“Reassuring,” Yaz teases. At her subtle nod, though, Bowie slips their keys from their back pocket and quirks a brow while the vehicle audibly unlocks. 

On their way over, however, Yaz can’t help but take in an array of painted handprints, doodles that seemingly came about through children’s hands; dates; maps; a section dedicated to names — all of which cover the length of the van. When she pauses to inspect the paintwork in the dim light, her brow furrows. 

“Are these the names of all your victims?” Yaz asks. 

From the driver’s side door, Bowie pads back over, keys clinking. The display draws a different kind of smile to the surface, reminiscence and familiarity clinging to the creases at the corners of their mouth. “Every time I travel somewhere new, I let the people I meet make their mark on her, so I can carry them with me.” 

Wordlessly, Yaz observes their expression shift and their gaze flit between each design as if recording them to memory all over again. 

Awe-inspired by their wise actions, a renewed sense of comfort and admiration clings to the fabric of Bowie’s shirt and seeps into the soul beneath. They’re still a complex puzzle to be learnt, but if this evening is anything to go by, Yaz thinks she’s prepared for the quest. 

And, after a stunned silence, Bowie turns back to her, oblivious to the way Yaz all but gawps. “You wanna check out the inside? I’m freezin’, not gonna lie.”

The sliding door on the side of the converted minibus squeaks with use when Bowie pries it open and steps aside, granting her entrance. “Welcome to my humble abode. I’ll get the heating on.”

Proceeding the tidy, orderly kitchenette and a storage box disguised as a coffee table sits a modest double bed and a toilet cubicle. The whole setup sits in shades of blue, grey and white and it’s surprisingly spacious as Yaz meanders the length of it.

“Catch,” Bowie instructs, capturing Yaz’s wandering attention quick enough for her to seize a chilled water bottle in her grasp. She takes a sip while Bowie clambers into the front compartment to warm the cool interior, each curious twist and turn presenting her with new details. 

Photographs take up the majority of the wall space alongside collectable postcards and art prints from around the world. There’s room for a small desk between the restroom and the kitchen where a monitor sits, replaying a slideshow of more photos — the majority of which contain Bowie’s grinning, thumbs-up form. 

Tricolour fairy lights wind around the four corners of the camper and when Yaz perches down on the end of their bed to ease off her boots, she’s delighted to find a skylight perfectly situated above. 

“This place is _proper_ insane, Bowie. Y’sure it’s not bigger on the inside?” 

“Feels like it, doesn’t it?”

“I love this,” Yaz compliments, pointing up to the skylight. 

“It’s a clear night, too. You should be able to see Venus _and_ Mars. D’you want me to open it? I’ve got blankets if you need one. And hot chocolate — and custard creams?”

“You can open it?” Yaz baulks, shuffling over when Bowie leaps up onto the bed. “Yes — yeah, that would be ace.”

Clambering atop the bed, Bowie grunts with the effort of propping the domed window open and exposing starry skies for the taking. “How’s that for a view?” they boast with a grin, glimpsing south for Yaz’s approval.

Yaz can’t help the way her eyes catch on a slim waist and pale, mole-speckled tummy from her position. Mutedly, she praises the loose fit of Bowie’s tank top half a second before she registers that they’ve said anything. 

“Pretty good,” Yaz breathes, her gaze unmoving. 

She misses the twitch of Bowie’s mouth and their silent observation. 

“I meant the sky, babe,” they call her out, “but thanks.”

“So did I?” 

Bowie’s laugh makes Yaz’s ribs cave in around an oozing heart. “Sure. Hot cocoa?”

The drugs in her system lie down and _pray_ for more hydration. “Please?” Yaz answers, mouth dry. 

Before slipping away to boil the weathered kettle on the kitchen top, Bowie crouches at the end of the bed and drags open a well-disguised drawer. Withdrawing a thick navy blue blanket and a burgundy hoodie from its confines amongst neatly-organised rows of clothing, they set them before Yaz. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The heating is still kicking in and Yaz concludes that a denim jacket isn’t the most comfortable garment to wear while lounging. So, lugging the Bowie-scented material off her shoulders to replace it with something equally aromatic, Yaz only then recognises the material as the hoodie Bowie had been wearing the morning previous during their encounter with a coffee-sodden businessman. 

The memory coaxes a smile to her face and, while Bowie slaves over the slow-boiling kettle and two star-dusted mugs, Yaz tucks her nose into the collar of their hoodie and takes in the blonde’s bedroom space from a closer angle. 

There’s an overflowing journal sat before their alarm clock on a fold-away bedside table, a photo frame depicting Bowie alongside a group of others Yaz doesn’t recognise; another featuring a teenage boy with spiky brown hair with his arms around a taller, older blonde Yaz quickly perceives as an adolescent Bowie. He must be their brother. 

What takes her most by surprise is a blood pressure monitor she recollects from doctor’s appointments with her nani, located in the corner of their desk.

Dragging her curious gaze away, Yaz watches Bowie hesitate before adding a handful of mini marshmallows to their steaming mugs. 

Before returning to her with their beverages, Bowie fetches an open pack of custard creams from the cupboard under the sink and takes hold of one between their teeth. 

“Hot ch’c’late c’m’n up,” they mumble through a bite, padding over on odd-socked feet. 

Laughing in good nature, Yaz shuffles up to allow them room to set their mugs down and climb up beside her. It’s more than big enough for them both but the second Bowie’s knee comes to rest against her own in warm accompaniment through clothing, Yaz wishes only for the bed to shrink. 

Still, the device watching her from beside Bowie’s computer niggles at the forefront of her mind. 

“You’re thinking really loud,” Bowie notes after the last remnants of their biscuit bob at their throat and dust the corners of their mouth. Yaz fights the urge to wipe them away with her tongue despite her distracted state.

“Sorry if I seem nosy.” Yaz gnaws at the inside of her cheek in apprehension, pulling the sleeves of Bowie’s hoodie over her hands before she gestures to the white and blue machine attached to a velcro armband perched on their homemade desk. “But — what’ve you got that for? It’s for testing someone’s heart rate and their blood pressure, right? My Nani has it done every time she goes for a checkup.”

“Ah,” Bowie breathes, for once seeming sheepish. 

But for Yaz, sheepish means uncomfortable, and she’d never wish that upon anyone freshly acquainted with her. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to pry — just ignore me. You don’t have to answer that. It’s okay.”

“No, you’re alright.” Bowie sinks back against the pillows and pats the spot next to them in invitation for Yaz to copy, green eyes on the open skylight. 

Only once Yaz has readjusted her position and eased down at her side does Bowie indulge her. It’s as though the crescent moon above provides their confidence for them.

“I have a heart problem,” they admit to the sky. “Well, I say _problem_. I think it’s pretty cool.”

Their light tone eases the anxiety in Yaz’s gut somewhat, but it doesn’t stop their admission landing like a sucker-punch to the chest. She remains muted, though, leaving Bowie the space and time to continue. 

“I were diagnosed when I was four, and it’s a rare condition. Basically, the top half of my heart works too fast sometimes, and the bottom half goes too slow,” they reveal, voice fuelled by fascination over worry. “I was given a pacemaker when I was ten which helped even things out and pace my heart for me. Without it, I might not have been here today.”

“Wow,” Yaz marvels, though it’s directed towards Bowie’s honesty and prevalence rather than the machine assisting the organ beneath their ribs. A warm pinky falls alongside hers and Yaz coils her own around it with a squeeze. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Bowie.”

“There’s still little things I can’t do; like walking through the security gates at an airport in case I get electrocuted,” Bowie snickers, shrugging their shoulders as though it’s one big joke. Yaz assumes that’s how they tend to cope and accepts it alongside their grin. “Or hold magnets too close to my chest in case it messes with the programming; or drink tons of energy drinks in one go in case it sets me off, but it could be worse. _Tons_ worse.”

“Is that why you don’t like lifts? ‘Cause there’s so much metal and electrical… stuff?” Yaz probes in innocent intrigue. 

“Nice deduction, but that’s a slightly different story,” Bowie divulges, taking a breath before they go on. “I was being moved back to the children’s ward after an operation when I was around eight, and I coughed too hard while in the lift there — and tore the stitches in my groin.” Their nose is scrunched in distaste when they turn to watch Yaz’s reaction unfurl. 

Wincing, Yaz sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and tightens her hold on Bowie’s pinky finger. But fascination takes over the instinct to change subject and chuckling, Bowie is happy to indulge her. “What happened next?”

“Well, we were three floors away, so I ended up almost bleeding out in the lift. And _that_ is why I haven’t taken one since. Can’t stand ‘em.”

“Bloody hell, Bowie,” Yaz whistles lowly. “Don’t do it by halves, do you?”

“Nope,” they beam, attention returning to the sky. “It’s why I travel for work so much — so I can make the most of what I’ve got right now in case anything else happens. Not that it will — I’ve had no major problems for almost ten years, now, apart from some little blips here and there, but — y’know.”

“Just in case you lose the chance to?” 

“Exactly.”

Yaz crowds closer when a sudden breeze plights them, leaving Bowie to reach blindly for their blanket and drape it across them. “You’re really brave, Bowie,” Yaz commends. 

“Nah, I’ve just got my head in the clouds. That’s what my dad used to say. He had a point, come t’think of it.”

Yaz takes the past tense approach as another hint but decides against expanding on it, instead surrendering to her quietened company and the gentlest of touches along the bridge of her knuckles. 

“Can you see Mars, Yaz? It’s just at the bottom left of the moon from this angle,” Bowie breathes a short time later, dry lips parted in awe. 

“Got it,” Yaz hums, tilting her head. It sits snug against Bowie’s shoulder in a move emboldened by their warmth. “S’that Venus, just to the left?” 

“Good eye, babe. You’re no stranger to stargazing.”

“I used to spend all night watching the sky from the balcony back at home. My parents couldn’t drag me away from it,” Yaz explains, disguising a sharp inhale behind a yawn when Bowie slips their fingers between hers and strokes their thumb in unconscious motions against her pulse. 

“Ah, I were one of the lucky ones. My dad had a secret hideout on the top of the hill just behind our house with a telescope n’all,” Bowie discloses, lifting their free arm to curl behind their head, inked biceps on display to the skies. “We used to camp up there sometimes and scare Jonny with ghost stories. Wilf was a proper ace dad.” 

Despite how much she wants to ask and ask and _ask_ , Yaz holds her breath and allows them the opportunity to continue if they so wish. 

“He — uh —” Bowie’s hold loosens but Yaz squeezes, keeping their threads of contact entwined. “He was well into his sixties when he adopted us; he passed when I was eighteen and Johnny was fourteen. I was too old for the system at that point, but they took Johnny back into care. New family; new start and all that. I still see him when I can.”

“I’m really sorry, Bowie,” Yaz turns her head, shocked to find Bowie’s own already cast in her direction. Her cheeks flush under the weight of their heady eyes, and _burn_ when they descend to her lips. Swallowing, she wills herself not to simply lean in. “It must’ve been tough.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Bowie shrugs. “We’re both old enough to see each other whenever we want, now — even though he still acts like a bloody teenager.” 

“Are you still close?” Yaz poses, following the line of their jaw with dilated pupils. 

Bowie reaches across for their hot chocolate, taking a sip before responding. “Unfortunately, yeah,” they answer, their laugh muffled against the decorated rim. 

Yaz steals a custard cream from the space between them, stifling a snort at Bowie’s playfully narrowed gaze. 

“Got to admit it; I usually prefer bourbons,” she crows just to watch Bowie’s mug freeze just shy of their mouth and their expression shift into one of barely restrained betrayal. 

Their hand slips free from Yaz’s hold and they fold it across their lap as though they know full well how much Yaz was enjoying their contact. “Don’t test me, babe.”

Yaz’s answering laughter cracks at the surface of Bowie’s facade and, setting their mug aside, they pluck the open packet of biscuits up and snicker into their next bite. 

Half a pack of custard creams, an astrology lesson and a mug of near-cold drinking chocolate on Yaz’s part later, Bowie picks up on Yaz’s unquelled shivers. 

Without questioning, Bowie leans up on their knees to close the skylight above their heads. 

When they ease back down, Yaz is still glimpsing the slip of skin between their jeans and top. 

Bowie’s smirk derails her composure and if she could _just_ reach out, drag them forwards and — 

“I’ll turn the heating up,” they inform before climbing free and padding between kitchen top and desk towards the thermostat behind the driver’s seat. 

While one half of her brain curses her for not wiping the smug look off Bowie’s face, the other half zones in on the acoustic guitar hooked up on the opposite wall and the image of long, deft fingers working at the strings. 

Heat spikes in the pit of her stomach and Yaz sits up, blankets pooling in her lap. 

There’s a faint wheeze and the sound of clicking metal as the van churns extra warmth into the spacious back cabin. 

Bowie’s footsteps are light on the way back, but pause just shy of the instrument when they spot Yaz’s lingering gaze. 

“Can you play?”

Bowie nods. “Self-taught.”

Yaz’s tongue is caught between her teeth when she grins in challenge. “Prove it.”

“Feelin’ the pressure, babe,” Bowie purrs, lifting the guitar off its fastening and hopping onto their desk in one smooth move. Legs spread, they let one swing beneath while their other foot plants onto the seat of their chair. 

Yaz snickers, shuffling up to the end of the bed for a better view of their performance. “You’re not going to chicken out on me, are you?”

“On you? Never.” Bowie strums blindly at the strings to ensure they’re in tune before sitting up properly and puffing out their chest. “Better hold onto your pants, sweetheart.”

“No objectifying your audience, Bowie.”

The first few chords don’t hold any hints to the song, but as soon as Bowie parts their lips to sing, it doesn’t matter; they make it their own anyway. 

_“I can feel your eyes in the back of my head,_

_Burning, burning, burning._

_Floating through the room as the hairs on my arms are,_

_Rising, rising, rising.”_

Yaz is ensnared from the first lyric, her jaw dropping just in time for Bowie’s quick glimpse her way. Their head is otherwise ducked, blonde hair curtaining warm features and shrouding the next verse in a secret confession. 

_“I'm chemically drawn closer to you,_

_Eyes wide, eyes wide open._

_Will you be my future or just an escape?_

_Love me, love me, love me._

_You'll never get to heaven on a night like this.”_

Bowie lifts their head, the flow caught and conquered. Their heel taps against the seat but that’s decidedly not where Yaz keeps her eyes. 

_“Those nights when you crave someone,_

_To be there at dawn, to wake with, 'cause aren't we all just;_

_Looking for a little bit of hope these days?_

_Looking for somebody you can wake up with?_

_Looking for a little bit of hope these days?_

_We are, we are.”_

Decorated forearms flex and long, talented fingers drag across the strings and Yaz hungrily takes them in. 

_“Pulling at my t-shirt, your hands everywhere_

_Rising, rising, rising_

_As you trip and fall, dragging me up the stairs_

_What's your, what's your name, now?”_

Green eyes fissure away at Yaz’s esteem when she forces herself to stop ogling and look north. She doesn’t avert her attention, though, holding Bowie’s eye contact while she dwindles off. 

_“You try to get to heaven on a night like this,_

_But you, you never get to heaven on a night like this,”_

The instant Bowie slows to a stop, something in Yaz’s gut takes control over her feet and forces her from warm blankets. 

“Bit rusty,” Bowie admits, reaching up to scratch at the back of their neck in the first sign of bashfulness Yaz has witnessed from them thus far. “What did you think—”

Their pause comes at the same time as Yaz closes in on them, palms finding the rugged handmade desk either side of their spread knees. 

“— of it?” they finish, discarding their sticker-drowned guitar to the space at their side. They watch her like a bird of prey tracks an innocent vole, preempting her next move.

“Really good.” Yaz steps into the space between their legs and, smoothly, Bowie closes them in on her, fixing her in place.

Self-assured, Bowie wets their lips and lifts their chin. “Is this the part where y’kiss me?”

Yaz’s heartbeat rushes to her ears. “That an offer?”

“Oh, just _get on with it_ ,” Bowie laughs, catching the hem of Yaz’s borrowed hoodie and dragging their mouths together.

Yaz sinks into the contact with a sighed “ _finally_ ”, hands finding Bowie’s waist and curling into the fabric of their shirt. 

In Bowie’s case, they give as good as they get and then some, musician’s fingers slipping through Yaz’s hair to guide their kiss with mutual ardour. They scratch at her scalp and swipe a hot tongue along her bottom lip, chasing the curve in a request for entrance. 

It’s a request which is granted in a millisecond. With a breathy sigh, Yaz moulds against them, chest to heaving chest, and parts her lips in welcome invitation. 

The instant Bowie is given the upper hand, they run with it. Delving their tongue past her lips and pressing impossibly closer, they drop a hand to Yaz’s waist, fingers inching below her borrowed hoodie to trace black lace. 

When Yaz gasps, leaning into their curious touch, Bowie moves in a flash. 

Skillfully pursuing their kiss, Bowie slips from the desk to walk Yaz back into the opposite wall with their hands on her hips. 

A postcard and a handful of photographs fall from the painted metal at her back when Yaz collides with the surface, but she takes no notice. The way Bowie takes control sends her reeling and, barely catching her breath, she drags them in by the back of their neck.

Taking incentive, Bowie tips their head to the side and deepens the kiss with a pleased hum. They move with feline grace, closing in with fluid limbs. Hips slotting together, they nudge a thigh between her own. 

The move makes Yaz gasp. Her hand flies to Bowie’s waist and her mouth falls open. “ _God_.”

“Just Bowie, babe,” the blonde drawls through huffs of oxygen into their lungs. They press a kiss to the corner of Yaz’s mouth before straying to her jaw with unyielding inquisitiveness. 

But they’re not pushy, and Yaz is grateful for that. Each kiss is a gentle exploration; a curious search for reactions from her. 

Like the low hum she emits when Bowie finds the spot just shy of her pulse, for example. 

Bowie’s eyes lift like a cat’s ears pricking to attention and Yaz is pleased to find their cheeks flushed; she isn’t the only one affected. “This okay? Just tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Please don’t,” Yaz answers quickly — too quickly? — and Bowie smirks in the shadow of her curls, glancing down between their bodies before blinking, slow and heady, at her. They’re so attractive it almost _hurts_. Yaz breathes a short, impatient huff when they lean in to nudge their nose along her jaw rather than bare their lips to her skin, taking their time. 

Yaz skirts a hand along their hip to the small of their back, their skin burning through layers of clothing. “ _Bowie_.”

“Sorry. You’re just —” Bowie blows out their cheeks in flustered appreciation, hot breaths greeting her neck. “I can’t help but want to take my time with you.”

Yaz wants to bite back with a cutting remark but the earnestness in their dilated pupils puts her at odds with her natural instinct to shake their compliments off. 

Instead, Yaz curls her index finger through their belt loops and hitches their hips flush. “Kiss me.”

The back of her head meets the wall as Bowie kisses her up a storm, hands on her waist, then in her hair, then back down to the hem of her hoodie and tugging. Yaz’s arms lift in invitation and the too-big garment is swept over her head in a flash. 

The instant bare arms and black lace are bared to the room, Bowie takes her in with their bottom lip caught between their perfect teeth. 

Taking her chance while they’re pleasantly distracted, Yaz leans in to _finally_ connect her lips to their thrumming pulse and earn herself a low hum. They smell of expensive, musky cologne and beer, but there’s something earthy beneath which has Yaz pressing firmer for more. 

There’s a spot just below Bowie’s ear which reduces them to putty in seconds, and when Yaz introduces her teeth to the tender skin, Bowie sags against her with a moan, fingers curling into her thin lace bodice. 

She bites down just to bear witness to Bowie’s shuddering gasp and fidgeting hips. 

_“Yaz_ ,” they keen, free hand finding the wall above Yaz’s shoulder, caging her in. 

Lapping her tongue over the reddened mark makes Bowie shiver, so she indulges herself a touch longer. 

But stoking the flames doesn’t always put one in the top position, and Bowie isn’t lax for long. Sliding a warm palm over toned stomach muscles, Bowie seeks out the groove of Yaz’s bra.

Wide eyes greet hers when they find no signs of such garment beneath her top. Curious fingers encroach upon a thinly covered breast, precise and firm. 

Electricity pulsing towards her gut, Yaz tips her head back against the wall and arches into Bowie’s inquisitive touch with a staggered whine. 

It’s all the encouragement Bowie needs, apparently. Ducking their head, they close a hot, kiss-swollen mouth over Yaz’s clothed nipple at the same time as they tense their thigh between her trembling legs. 

The guttural moan Yaz breathes when a scolding tongue meets her breast through the mesh material is something she’d usually be embarrassed about. In this case, however, each and every noise spurs Bowie on with a talented mouth and the solid pressure between her thighs. 

Registering with shock that she could break apart like this a short time later, Yaz reaches between them to still Bowie’s rocking hips and searching tongue despite how much she wants them to continue. 

Bowie backs up right away, cheeks pink and eyes clouded. “You okay?”

“Think — um —” Yaz stammers, head foggy with pleasure and anticipation. “Think we could move to the bed?”

Wetting their lips, Bowie nods, eyes raking Yaz’s dishevelled form with hunger. 

Their bottom lip is glistening and, before she can hesitate, Yaz gives in to the need to catch it between her teeth and suck the residue clean. 

Bowie grunts in surprise, hands finding the back pockets of Yaz’s figure-hugging black jeans while they guide her back towards their bed. 

Yaz pushes the ghastly Hawaiian shirt from their shoulders on the journey, leaving them in a loose white tank and otherwise inked skin when the backs of her thighs bump against the edge of the mattress. 

A light push and a smirk later, Bowie clambers onto the sheets after her and reaches for the fly of Yaz’s jeans. A quick glance up for permission cements the distinct sound of unzipping before Yaz raises her hips and her jeans are discarded carelessly aside. 

Bowie doesn’t shuffle back up right away, taking their time instead to admire soft brown thighs and the way the bodice hugs her toned stomach. Yaz’s neck and the tips of her ears warm with the attention. “Christ, Yaz. I must’ve wished _really hard_ last night.”

Before they can lean in to press their mouth to a smooth thigh, though, Yaz stops them with a hand to their shoulder. 

She eyes their jeans and tank with a coy smile. “Even things out first?”

“I want this off,” Bowie almost whines, eyes on black lace. They unbuckle their belt and sit back to wriggle free from their jeans like an impatient child, then cross their arms to draw their tank top over their head boyishly. 

Blonde hair ruffled in their rush, they straddle Yaz’s thighs and unclasp her mesh top from black underwear in triumph. 

Even as her top is discarded and her own dusky breasts capture all of Bowie’s attention, Yaz’s gaze doesn’t stray from the tattoos littering their bare chest. There’s a silhouette of two interlocked hands set against their ribcage and a lightning bolt along the jut of their hip. A crescent moon joins their sleeve on the curve of a prominent collarbone, where, just below, a thick white line adds character to their perfect skin. 

“Wow,” Yaz breathes, tracing an old-school film camera inked into the skin just under their breast. Bowie twitches above her, arching into the touch when she drags her fingertip up to a pale pink nipple and circles it. “And y’say _I’m_ the one dreamt up.” 

“Who knows,” Bowie whispers, a smirk on their lips. _Always_ a smirk on their lips; as though they know something Yaz doesn’t. Or something she’s just about to uncover. Yaz reels with anticipation. “Perhaps we’re both high as a kite somewhere and this is all just a really, really good dream.”

Emboldened, Yaz arches a brow. “Care to prove that theory wrong?”

“With pleasure, babe,” Bowie smoulders, ducking their head to kiss her with ardour. A strong hand and deft fingers work her breast, thumb skimming a dark nipple until it grows hard and sensitive. Tongue sweeping around the backs of her teeth and battling with her own, they take full control. 

They shift, straddling a toned thigh so they can press a knee against her molten core through her underwear and grunt their surprise at the bountiful dampness they find. 

“Christ,” Bowie sighs, parting from Yaz’s mouth to follow the line of their bodies and skirt a hand down her stomach. When it reaches the apex of her thighs, they moan in unison. 

Bowie’s lips descend to her chest as their hand ventures past the material and Yaz can do nothing but grip at their shoulders when long fingers find her slick and needy. They breeze over her clit only to gather her up between two fingers and draw them to their mouth for a taste.

Pupils darkening tenfold, Yaz takes in the performance with a desperate little whine. “Bowie, please.”

In answer, and only after Bowie has sucked them clean, the blonde rests their fingers against her bottom lip with wide, questioning eyes. 

Without hesitation, Yaz opens her mouth and takes them in, tongue swirling and tasting and exploring until, slack-jawed, Bowie looks like they might combust there and then. 

“Fuck,” they grunt when Yaz leans up to take them deeper, fluttering lashes giving way to heady eyes. 

Satisfied, she lets them drop from her tongue a moment later, only to be dragged into a filthy, bruising kiss while they find their former place. 

Bowie sinks inside her while they chase the oxygen from her lungs, swallowing Yaz’s gasped moan and setting up a steadily growing pace in no time at all.

“You feel amazing,” Bowie emits when Yaz’s pleasure makes kissing her impossible, lips sealing to her chest once more. The sound of their heavy breathing is nothing compared to the slick sounds south of their heaving chests. “You’re so wet, Yaz. All for me?”

“Been — _ah_ —” Yaz canters off into a groan when Bowie adds another finger without warning, though she’s so aroused it comes as a welcome fullness. “Been thinkin’ about this since I first saw you. Your mouth. Your hands. Fuck, Bowie, your _hands._ ”

Smug but affected, Bowie grazes their teeth over a pebbled nipple when they smirk. “You’ve been thinking about us together, like this, all evening?”

“All day,” Yaz corrects, thighs parting further. As if reading her mind, Bowie lets a third finger join the two pistoning between her legs. 

“All day?”

“I saw you this morning, in town,” Yaz breathes in a hurry before a perfectly angled thrust sends her brain and mouth out of sync. “Couldn’t stop watching you.”

Bowie makes a low sound of acknowledgement, switching to her unattended breast and lathering it in burning attention. They bite down on the underside, marking the skin like their own. 

A fresh flood of arousal drives them deeper and raises Yaz’s hips in keen encouragement. 

“Did you imagine this, Yaz?” Bowie purrs against her marked breast, hot breaths tumbling over a hardened nub. “Me having you like this?”

It’s like they’re telepathic; each drawled word sends pulses of electricity to her gut like she’s stuck her finger in an open socket. She can see her peak on the horizon, within touching distance if they’d just — 

“Bowie, I need —” 

Bowie’s head lifts and they blow out their cheeks at the pleasured look on Yaz’s face. “What do you need, Yaz?” 

“More. I need more,” Yaz pleads. 

Slowing down their thrusting fingers, Bowie glances between Yaz’s creased brow and their bedside unit. “D’you think you could take something bigger, babe?”

Yaz barely hesitates before the insinuation clicks and she nods, wholeheartedly. “Yes. Yeah, definitely.” 

Bowie’s fingers withdraw with an obscene noise and they lift them to their mouth to taste before scrambling for their drawer. 

Trembling with need and squeezing her thighs together for _some_ kind of friction, Yaz can only watch as Bowie plucks their chosen toy from their drawer and slips into a harness. It clashes slightly with the black and white checkered boxers hugging their thighs, but there are more important things to focus on when they clamber back onto the bed between her legs. 

With the small bottle in hand, they squeeze a healthy dollop of lube into their palm and coat the modest length perturbing from their crotch like second nature. When they drop their gaze to Yaz’s barely-removed underwear and shoot her a requesting look, Yaz raises her hips to peel the ruined material away. 

“You’ve done that before,” Yaz remarks while Bowie lathers the flesh-coloured toy, pulling off the length in a way which makes saliva rush to her mouth and her core ache. 

“I — uh —” Bowie ducks their head, distracting themself with shuffling forward so they can line the fake phallus up with her pulsing entrance. “I soft-pack sometimes. It helps to know your way around it.”

Two fingers part her and slip just barely inside, as though they can’t help but sink into her. Yaz moans low in her throat, even the smallest touches enough to bring her back around. The added image of Bowie soft-packing in a casual sense only stokes the flames in her gut further. 

“Are you ready?” Bowie husks, the tip resting against her. 

Yaz grips at their strong shoulders in vain. “Please.”

Without any further warning, Bowie presses forward, filling her up in one controlled, slow roll of their hips. 

They watch the toy disappear with keen interest, jaw slackening with the result. The idea that Bowie is just as affected as her by the whole show is undoubtedly what draws the length in so smoothly.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Yaz breathes when they bottom out, discomfort non-existent in the wake of how turned on she is. “You can move,” she adds when Bowie hesitates, hitching her thighs over their hips. “Please. I need it.”

With a gruff noise, Bowie captures her lips and begins a series of deep, slow thrusts which send Yaz’s eyes rolling back with pleasure. 

Rocking against her, Bowie curls their arms beneath her shoulders and grips the pillow behind her head, hot breaths melting into her mouth. “I wish I could feel you around me,” they sigh, swiping their tongue into Yaz’s mouth in time with the next thrust. 

Dizzy with arousal, Yaz meets them on each cant of their hips and trembles when Bowie reaches depths she’d never imagined were possible. They barely pull back, each thrust a talented propulsion of their hips which winds her up at a shocking speed. 

“You’re so big,” Yaz groans, slipping a hand into their hair. She’s forced to break from the kiss to gasp on an especially well-aimed movement, nails finding home in the strong curve of their shoulder. “ _God_ , you’re good. You’re so fucking good.”

Slightly uncoordinated, Bowie’s hips quicken their pace and they muffle a groan against her shoulder, curling into her. “Yeah?”

Yaz’s confirmation dies on her lips in the wake of deft fingers at her clit. It’s almost too much.

Slumping against her in order to switch between fast, shallow and deep, swivelling motions, Bowie grunts with every propulsion. 

“Are you cl —” 

“Bowie, I’m going to —

Bowie’s snicker jostles the toy moving inside her and Yaz slips a hand down to their backside, encouraging them deeper. “Gotcha.”

If Yaz thought they were already going fast enough, their following thrusts rock the vehicle on its axles. Quick, measured rolls of their hips leave her gasping out nonsensical praises and variations of their name. 

“Come on, babe,” Bowie purrs, breathless and glossy with a sheen of sweat. Blonde locks curtain their concentrated expression while they aim and strike at the very depths of her and it’s enough to drive Yaz into whatever cloudy, heavenly nethersphere they have saved for her. “I wanna see you come.”

Under a warm body perfectly fitted to her own and embraced by arms sleeved in artistic imagination, Yaz concedes to her clamping walls and fluttering core and cries out. 

She doesn’t remember Bowie pulling out, nor the intimate pressure of a body against her own recovering and slumping at her side. 

When she succumbs to someplace outside of the tingling, dizzying blur of sensation she’d found herself, Bowie is laying, panting, at her side, brows knitted in determined focus. 

Yaz glances between them to find Bowie’s hand tucked into their boxers, the material tented around deft, working fingers. 

“Wait,” she breathes in protest, rolling onto her side and reaching for Bowie’s wrist. The blonde’s eyes snap open as though they’ve been caught, and their hand freezes in its mission. 

When Yaz replaces their hand with her own, sneaking past the loose waistband, Bowie’s head falls back against their pillow with a keening groan. “I’m so close already. It’s really — It’s really not going to take long.”

Two fingers delve past dripping folds like a knife through butter and, emboldened by her own powerful orgasm, Yaz drives them quickly towards theirs. “That really did it for you, huh?”

“Have you seen yourself?” Bowie insists, bruising in their grip on Yaz’s forearm. The watch around their wrist _beeps_ to attention but they ignore it, a humoured smile on their face. “Sorry. S’warning that my heart’s going faster than usual.”

But it’s enough to give Yaz pause, stomach churning with worry. “Everything alright?”

“Babe, if it were an episode, I would’ve let you know a lot sooner,” Bowie reassures her, tone earnest. “I promise. Please keep going.”

Somewhat satisfied, Yaz picks up her pace. Her thumb strays to their clit when Bowie’s hips roll up into her hand with every pump and curl of her fingers, circling the swollen nub in time with the pulse she spots racing in Bowie’s neck. 

The stream of sounds flowing from Bowie’s lips are music to Yaz’s ears as she continues her assault. She ducks her head to seek out a hardened nipple, biting down when Bowie whimpers. 

“ _Yaz._ ”

“I know,” Yaz murmurs, tongue laving over their nipple in direct sight of Bowie’s glossy pupils. “Let go, whenever you’re ready.”

It’s too much for them to watch, apparently, when they begin clenching around her fingers and gripping blindly at the sheets about them. 

Cursing with every gasp and closing their thighs in on her hand, Bowie squeezes her fingers half to death when they come. 

The way they pant her name under their breath as they come down from their orgasm leaves Yaz’s stomach in somersaults and sends another wave of heat to her core. 

By the time they catch their breath, Yaz has crawled down the bed to their thighs, seeking out their taste. 

Bowie blinks blearily down at her, cheeks flushing with colour. “You’re gonna kill me.”

* * *

Hours later, under the peach skies of a sunrise witnessed between sips of refuelling water, Yaz learns of a scar on Bowie’s shin where they’d overenthusiastically greeted a high curb as a youngster. 

Under the same sky, Bowie’s arm encircles Yaz’s shoulders as she retells a story of bullying; of teenage angst and a stubborn policewoman unwilling to let her run. 

And in the foreground of such a sky, Bowie affords her the offer of a lifetime. 

“Come with me, next time. Take your camera and your scripts and work with me. I promise you; everyone’s going to love you.” 

“That’s too fairytale.”

“Indulge me.” 

“Alright. I’ll come.” 

“You will?”

“On one condition.”

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Kiss me again?”

“That, Yasmin Khan, I can definitely do.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3


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